by Amy Cross
I cannot help myself. I turn and look toward the doors, but all I see outside is more rain falling in the darkness. I can just about make out the dark smudge of the summer house in the distance, but there is still no sign whatsoever of any human figure out there.
“You can see her!” His Lordship shouts. “For God's sake, man, what's wrong with you? She's right there!”
“Sir, I -”
“She's almost at the steps!”
I open my mouth to tell him that I see nothing, but for a moment longer I watch the darkness, just in case a shape suddenly appears. It is foolish to entertain such fancies, yet I do entertain them, if only for a few seconds.
“Lord, deliver me from this horror,” His Lordship says, making the sign of the cross against his chest. “I will face my due punishment, but I beg you, do not make me face her, not like this.”
Still watching the darkness, I begin to imagine – in my mind's eye – the sight of Her Ladyship coming closer and closer to the door. I imagine her in that stained and tattered night-dress that she wore when last I saw her, with her hair hanging down and her eyes filled with anger. She walks with her arms hung down at her sides, and her progress is steady as she reaches the steps. It is a most terrifying image but, as I quickly remind myself, it is merely something that I have conjured in my imagination. It is not real.
“Here she comes,” His Lordship whimpers. “For God's sake, man, she's on the steps now. Can't you see her?”
I hesitate for a moment longer, and then I realize that a strong wind is blowing rain into the house. I hurry forward and grab the door handles, and then I swing the double doors shut with such force that they shudder slightly in their frames, and then I turn the key to make sure that they are locked. Then, staring at the window, I watch as rain hits the other side of the glass. For a fraction of a second, I think I almost expect to see Her Ladyship's face approaching in the darkness. Then, remembering my responsibilities, I reach down and remove the key from the lock, lest His Lordship might once again try to go out into the bad weather.
“Oh God,” His Lordship says behind me, and I turn to see him shuffling back across the floor with one hand still raised in defense. “Lord, have pity on me.”
I stare at him, briefly unsure as to what I should do next. Feeling as if my mind is entirely blank, I finally try to imagine what Mrs. Ferguson would do in such a situation, and this at least gives me an idea.
“You're soaked,” I say, stepping forward. “Sir, you'll catch pneumonia. We must get you over to the fire, and out of those wet clothes.”
“There's no point,” he sobs. “There's no point in anything, not anymore. She's coming for me and maybe that's just how it should be. Maybe I should submit to her and get it over with.”
“Stand up, Sir. Please.”
To my surprise, he does at least start to stand, although he's tottering on unsteady legs. We're both wet from the rain, of course, but my priority must be to make His Lordship comfortable, so I lead him over toward the fire that Mrs. Ferguson started, and then I start unbuttoning his shirt.
“All will seem better in the morning,” I tell him, although my teeth are chattering slightly from the cold as my own wet clothes cling to my body. “The darkness, it makes things seem worse somehow. You're not well, Sir, but a doctor will see you soon, and by morning you will see the sunrise over the forest, and you'll hear the birds sing in the trees, and we'll walk out together and look at the beautiful sight of Aldburn Park bathed in a warm glow. Just think of that moment, Sir. Think of the good things in life.”
I pull his shirt aside and slip it off his body, and then I begin to remove his vest. As I do so, however, I see that his gaze is focused on a spot over my shoulder, and I instinctively turn.
He is looking, as I should have anticipated, at the double doors.
In that moment, the doors shudder slightly. The wind must be really picking up.
“Everything will be fine,” I continue, “you'll see.” I manage to get his vest off, and then I pull his trousers down and finish undressing him. In the circumstances, this does seem to be the best course of action.
Once he is naked, I help him into the chair by the fireplace. His wet, matted hair will surely dry soon. Turning, I take a blanket from one of the other chairs and carefully drape it over His Lordship, leaving only his head and feet poking out at either end. To my surprise, he is not shivering at all, but I suppose the warmth has already begun to reach him. He is still, however, staring firmly and with much determination at the double doors.
“I must go and fetch something warm for you to drink,” I tell him. “Do you understand? And I must check that Mrs. Ferguson has succeeded in calling a doctor out, even at this late hour. I shall not be long, though. Please, Your Lordship, just rest here for a few minutes.”
I wait, but still he watches the doors.
“Do you honestly not see her?” he asks finally, barely getting the words out.
Behind me, the doors rattle once more in their frame.
“Sir, I -”
“She's right there,” he continues. “At first, I only saw her in reflections, but now I see her properly. She's watching us, Lawrence, and she means to have her revenge. There's no point fighting, not anymore. I deserve this. I have deserved it every day for the past few years, every day since...”
His voice trails off.
I wait, but he merely continues to stare.
“I shall be back soon,” I tell him after a suitable pause has passed. “Wait right here. Do you understand?”
He does not reply, so I turn to hurry out of the room.
“She watches you too, Lawrence,” His Lordship says suddenly.
I stop and turn to him, and I find that this time he is staring directly at me.
“More so me than you,” he continues, “but... She watches you as well, from time to time. I've noticed. Not often, but you're the only other person she seems to notice. That cook, the woman, I don't remember her name, but she seems to pass unnoticed by Catherine. You, Lawrence... You she notices. She looks at you with that same expression that she uses when she's looking at me. In fact she's doing it now and...”
His voice trails off, and then he looks back toward the doors.
“Ah, no,” he says after a moment, “she's looking at me again now. Like I said, it's mostly me. I suppose that's only fair, isn't it?” He pauses. “I know you think I'm imagining it all, Lawrence, but I promise you that I'm not. A few hours ago, I even felt her hand on my face. I couldn't imagine that, now, could I?”
I watch him for a moment, and then I look once more at the double doors. I still see no sign of anyone, as rain continues to tap against the glass panes.
I swallow hard.
“I shall be back presently, Your Lordship,” I say, as calmly as I can manage. “Please, focus on warming yourself.”
I wait a moment, in case he says anything else, and then I turn and head out into the corridor. My clothes are still wet and cold, but I shall find time to change later. Right now, my duty is to my master, and I must make sure that he is fully attended to. With that in mind, I make my way through to the dining room and then – not finding Mrs. Ferguson where I expected her – I hurry to the pantry and the larder and, finally, I find her watching a boiling kettle in the kitchen.
I stop, and for a moment she seems oblivious to my presence as she watches the kettle and listens to its slowly growing whistle.
Then, quite suddenly, she turns to me.
“His Lordship is recovering by the fire,” I explain. “I think he would benefit a great deal from a nice cup of hot tea.”
She stares at me for a moment, and then she goes and fetches a cup and saucer from one of the shelves.
“A Doctor Jerome is going to come out to the house,” she explains as she carries the cup and saucer back over to one of the tables. Her hands are trembling, causing the porcelain to judder. “It took some persuading to get him to agree, but eventually he seemed to understand
the urgency of the situation. I'm afraid I had to over-egg things slightly, or at least I thought that's what I was doing. I don't know, perhaps...”
She sets the cup and saucer down and then, as the kettle's whistling sound gets louder and louder, she turns to me.
“How is His Lordship now?” she asks.
“As I explained, he is recovering.”
“Do you really believe that?”
“I know it,” I reply. “I stripped him out of his wet clothes and set him by the fire. I am grateful, by the way, to you for getting that started.”
“It was my duty:”
“Mmm.” I nod. “He has a blanket. Once he is dry, I intend to change him into a fresh set of clothes, or perhaps a night-shirt will suffice. Perhaps you can find one and bring it down?”
“Of course. As soon as the tea is done.”
I check my pocket watch and see, to my surprise, that it is still only two in the morning. We still have several hours to go, before sunrise. I am sure that His Lordship will be in better spirits once the sun comes up, but until then it might be difficult to keep him calm.
The kettle starts shaking now on the cooker. It must be boiling.
“We must hope that this Doctor Jerome prescribes some kind of sedative,” I say calmly, “to keep His Lordship from having any more bad nights.”
“Do you really think that will work?”
“Why would it not?”
“Because he -”
“Is the water not ready?” I add.
She looks down at the kettle, and then she mutters something under her breath before removing it from the cooker and starting to pour water into the cup. Then, once she's done, she sets the kettle down and takes some tea from a nearby pot, and she sets about finishing the job.
“I should have put this in first,” she says, her voice tense with fear, “but I'm used to making pots, not single cups. Oh, perhaps I should start again, I've made such a mess of it and -”
“I'm sure you've done a very good job,” I say, stepping over and touching her wrist, then gently moving her hand away from the cup. “His Lordship will no doubt be extremely grateful. As am I.”
“Do you really think this will be better in the morning?” she asks.
“I know it will.”
“And then what? There will come another night.”
“That is why a doctor is required.”
“But that only works if...”
I wait, but she seems scared to finish the sentence.
“If it's all in his mind,” she continues finally, and now tears are glistening in her eyes. “Mr. Lawrence, I did not say this before, because I knew that you would not be pleased. But once or twice since I arrived back at Aldburn Park, I have thought – just for brief moments – that I heard things I should not have heard.”
“I cannot imagine what you mean,” I tell her.
“Footsteps, once,” she replies, “when I knew full well that there should be none. And another time, just for a moment, I was so sure that I saw something move in a mirror. It was just in the corner of my eye, really, but it was there. I'm sure it was a person.”
“You must know that such thing are not real.”
“I don't know that, Mr. Lawrence. No. I don't know any such thing.”
“Obviously you have heard His Lordship talking,” I explain, “and -”
“That is not it,” she says firmly. “No, absolutely not. Why, some of the things happened even before he arrived.”
“Mrs. Ferguson -”
“Just be careful, Mr. Lawrence,” she adds, cutting me off. “If you have any reason to feel that you would be...”
Again, her voice trails off.
“That I would be what?”
I wait, but she seems lost for words. She is, however, staring at me with the most unusual expression, which seems to be some strange mixture of fear and concern.
“Well,” she continues finally, “I'm sure you'd know. If you had any reason to worry, I mean.” She hesitates. “You don't, Mr. Lawrence, do you?”
“I'm really not sure that I -”
“I see it in His Lordship's eyes,” she adds. “At first I thought it was fear, but now I see that there's guilt in there as well. And sometimes, just for a second or two at a time, I think I see it in...”
She continues to stare at me, as if she is searching for something in my face.
I should say something, I should tell her to hurry and fetch a night-shift for His Lordship, but somehow I feel as if I should not break the silence, as if it would be wrong for me to do so. Why I feel that way, I do not know, but after a few seconds I realize that I still have my hand resting gently on Mrs. Ferguson's wrist.
Suddenly I hear a bumping sound over my shoulder, and Mrs. Ferguson and I both turn – startled – and look across the room. For a moment, I hold my breath, until a window frame rattles slightly and I realize that the wind is once again buffeting the outside of the house.
Turning to Mrs. Ferguson, I see that she still appears a little nervous. There is a pause; I expect her to say something, to perhaps ask another of her infuriating questions, but she now seems to have been quietened. Perhaps, I think to myself, she finally understands that this is no time for her silliness.
“I must go to him,” I say eventually, ending the silence. “Please, find him a night-shirt.”
I do not give her another chance to interrupt me. This time I take the cup of tea and make my way along the corridor, then I go around the turn at the far end, and then I head into the music room so that I can cut through and get back to the study. At the last second, however, I stop as I see the large mirror that adorns almost one entire wall in the music room.
This house has so many mirrors, and one scarcely find a room without at least one that fills a wall.
There is no reason to be concerned by the mirror, of course, so I quickly recover my pace and march across the room. It is only when I reach the other side and head through to the study, that I realize I was deliberately avoiding looking at the mirror. Still, there is no need to dwell upon such things. To have looked would have been to admit some possibility that one believes the stories that one hears.
“I have brought tea,” I tell His Lordship, as I walk over to the chair and lean down to set the cup on the adjacent table, “and -”
Suddenly I freeze.
His Lordship's face is twisted into a rictus of absolute terror. His eyes are wide open, as his his mouth, and all the color seems to have drained from his features. His gaze is fixed straight forward, as if he is staring at something that is towering above him – or perhaps leaning down toward him. A moment later I look down at his hands and I see that both sets of fingers have been driven so deep into the rests that the fingernails have been broken against shards of split wood.
I swallow hard and take a step back, and in that moment I realize that His Lordship – Lord Matthew Fetchford of Garlingham House and Aldburn Park, son of the great Sir Cecil Fetchford, nephew of HRH the Duke of Carlinstoke – is dead.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Last Lord Fetchford
“It will have been his heart, I'd imagine,” Doctor Jerome says as he looks down at His Lordship's face. “I'll be able to let you know in the morning, but it's often the heart. The strain of such a long illness... Well, it gets to a man.”
Rain is still battering the windows as we stand in a semi-circle, staring at my dear, departed master. Mrs. Ferguson has her hands clenched tight, resting against her front, while I have my hands behind my back in – I believe – a more respectful pose. Doctor Jerome has so far proven to be extremely polite, although his young son – who apparently follows his father on such visits, even in the middle of the night – has his hands rather distastefully planted in his pockets.
“The body will be released within twenty-four hours,” Doctor Jerome continues, turning to me. “Do you have a funeral home in mind?”
“His Lordship left instructions,” I reply dutifully. “
I shall have someone read them to me over the telephone from London, and then I shall inform you in the morning.”
He nods, and then he turns to his son.
Immediately, the boy steps forward and makes his way around to the rear of the chair.
“Are you taking him now?” I ask.
“I'm obliged to, I'm afraid,” Doctor Jerome replies. “In ordinary circumstances, I'd telephone Mr. Bull at the police station and get him to come out, but I don't want to disturb him in the dead of night. I'll take Mr. Fetchford to my premises and then call the police in the morning.”
“The police?” Mrs. Ferguson says. “Why would they be involved?”
“Just a matter of routine,” he explains. “I'll inform them of my conclusion once I've had a chance to examine Mr. Fetchford, and then the body will be sent to the selected funeral home. Please don't be offended, it's just how these thing are done in our little county.”
“Of course,” I reply, before hesitating for a moment. “Although I should point out that it's Lord Fetchford.”
“I beg your pardon?”
“His Lordship was Lord Fetchford, not merely Mr. Fetchford. I just thought that was an important distinction to make.”
“I suppose so,” he says with a sigh, before turning back to look at His Lordship's face. “A man's a man, in any case. But I shall amend my paperwork accordingly, to note his title. Are there any children?”
“There are not,” I reply.
“So the title Lord Fetchford will die with him?”
I stare at His Lordship's harrowing features for a moment, before turning and meeting Doctor Jerome's face.
“I believe, in this case, that you are correct,” I tell him.
“Terribly sad,” he replies. “My son and I will take Lord Fetchford out to our automobile. There's a specially expanded part at the rear, designed specifically for the transportation of the recently deceased. It is my experience, Mr. Lawrence, that friend and close family members do not traditionally choose to watch the body being moved. Might I suggest that you and the distinguished lady might prefer to step outside for a few minutes?”
